


Heavy Stones Fear No Weather

by onceandfuturewarlock



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, careful Arthur your affection is showing, lets just get this out of the way my characterization of Merlin is Always Awful, there's more swearing than i intended but y'all should be used to it by now all things considered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceandfuturewarlock/pseuds/onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: Two weeks ago, there was a patrol. And it went wrong. And Merlin went missing. Two weeks later, he's back within Camelot's walls, no worse for the wear, with his usual goofy grin on his face. And Arthur thinks he's okay. (He isn't.)





	Heavy Stones Fear No Weather

Two weeks ago, there was a patrol.

No.

Two weeks ago, there was a patrol that went wrong. Wronger than any patrol that came before it had, and wronger than any patrol to come after it would, ever—wronger than any other patrol could hope to go—wronger than anything in the entire world—and Arthur didn't even realize it until it was too late—didn't realize, not even when the horde of bellowing, armed men rushed from the trees and fell upon them so suddenly—not even with the bright ringing clashes of sword on sword, or his own muscles bunching and burning beneath his skin as he pushed himself harder and harder and harder—not even with the groans of the fallen men grasping weakly at their wounds or the terrified whinnies of the frantic horses as they panicked and bolted, and not even with the blood on his blade or the weight of the weapon in his hand—not even when it  _ended_ —not even when their enemies gave up the fight and fled, turning their backs and plunging into the trees again— _a strategic retreat,_  he thought, at the time, because he still didn't realize then how wrong things had gone—so he tensed, and poised himself for the next wave, but it didn't come—it never came—and so he sheathed his sword and left the dead where they lay and turned round to look at his men and—

—and no flimsy worn tunic or ratty red scarf or rough brown jacket or untidy black hair or beaming bubbly smile  _no Merlin no Merlin no Merlin_ —

Gwaine made the connection right as Arthur did. "They took him!" He swung his bloodstained sword at nothing, crimson-soaked blade slicing the air. "Those  _bastards_  took him!" His voice came out a roar.

And Arthur didn't realize—even then, Arthur didn't realize, or maybe he just  _didn't want_  to realize—but Merlin always turned up all right in the end and why should this time be any different and surely, any moment now, he'd come stumbling out of the trees, grinning like a loon—"Miss me, Sire?" he'd call, and laugh, and look so utterly pleased with himself, Arthur would lean in and cuff him on the back of the head—knock the smile clean off his face—and Merlin would scowl at him and call him a prat and it'd be just another patrol and they wouldn't even remember it in the morning because Merlin couldn't be gone, it just wasn't possible, not when he always turned up all right.

And then—barely a pause for breath before he took off running, barreling into the trees after the escaping men—Leon called out to him, but he couldn't hear anything—his own heavy, gasping breaths, his own boots hitting the dirt, his own thoughts,  _screaming_ at him to get to Merlin right this instant, to rip him, if he had to, from the filthy hands of those pathetic, cowardly men—to lay these woods to waste—to tear the entire world in two, if it would bring Merlin back to him—if it would bring Merlin home—and he realized, then, stumbling slightly on the uneven terrain, that there was no path to follow—no prints in the soil, though it was still damp from yesterday's rain—no stones or shrubs disturbed by careless passage—no low-hanging branches broken off— _like magic,_  he will think, much later, when they have returned, and he is alone in his chambers and he can think about skinny, weak, defenseless Merlin, captured by evil sorcerers, and no one is there to see him break.

And later, when they have returned, there will be search parties. He will head most of them himself, and Gwaine will refuse to be left behind for anything, and Gaius will look at them with his old, pale, inscrutable eyes, and he will thank them— _I know you are doing all you can for Merlin_ , he will say—and Arthur will wish the old man had punched him in the stomach instead, because he will think that would hurt less.

Later, a day without Merlin will turn into three. Later, three days will turn into a week. Later, a week will turn into two, and their searches will turn up nothing, and Percival will suggest, with red-rimmed eyes that they hold a memorial for Merlin— _something worthy of him,_ he will say—and Arthur will only nod, because his throat will be too tight for him to say anything back—and—

—and then.

And then Merlin will come back.

And then Merlin comes back, and he's got a stupid, goofy grin on his face and mud on his jacket and dirt on his cheeks and leaves and twigs and half the damn forest tangled in his hair—and Gaius sweeps him up in a hug and says, in a voice that's meant to be a whisper but still carries to every corner of the room, "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

And Merlin whispers back, "I'm sorry, Gaius," something so soft and sincere and so very small in his voice that Arthur, less than three feet away, pretends not to hear.

Gwaine hugs Merlin, too—grabs him by the shoulders and throws both arms around him like it's been years since they last saw each other—and he ruffles Merlin's hair and says, "Thought we'd lost you," and his voice is thick with tears.

Guinevere hugs him and cries, and Leon pats him on the shoulder and says,"Welcome home."

And Arthur, when everyone else has gone, wraps his fingers round Merlin's forearm, and says, "Good to have you back," and even as the words leave his mouth, he wants to grab them and stuff them back down his throat, and swallow them, because he knows they aren't enough.

And then Merlin smiles, simple and sweet and so utterly Merlin. "Can't get rid of me that easily, Sire."

And everything is okay.

"They weren't very bright," Merlin says, when they ask, and not a moment before. "I got out within the hour—just got a bit turned around on my way back, is all." He talks between enthusiastic bites of the berries Gaius gave him a few minutes ago, eating like he hasn't seen a scrap of food in those two weeks, but Gaius says he's all right—undernourished and dehydrated and likely exhausted from his journey, but nothing a few days back in Camelot won't fix.

And everything is okay.

Merlin comes clattering into Arthur's chambers the next morning at the ungodliest of hours, ripping open the curtains and tripping over everything and shouting for him to "Rise and shine, Sire!"

And Arthur rolls over and lobs a pillow at him, and Merlin laughs—and for a minute, there's nothing but Merlin, head thrown back and mouth open, grinning so wide all his teeth are showing, the glow of a new dawn at his back—it seems a miracle, suddenly, that he is here to laugh like that, here to stand in the sun and wake Arthur up too early and trip over everything, and Arthur wonders how his heart can possibly hold this much happiness.

And then he throws another pillow at Merlin so the idiot won't see his smile.

And everything is so much more than just okay.

Arthur gets up after a minute—as much as he loves to make Merlin work for it, he _does_  have training, and his knights will be expecting him. They head down to the grounds together, and there's something strange in the way Merlin's walking— _stiffly,_  Arthur realizes, after a minute,  _painfully,_ like every step hurts—but next second, Merlin straightens up and quickens his pace and then he's walking fine, and Arthur wonders if he's imagined the entire thing.

Not long after Merlin's made it back, there's another patrol—and Arthur just may be the greatest fool to have ever lived, an absolute  _girl_ , really, it's humiliating, but he tells Merlin to stay behind anyway—"That's an order," he says, as Merlin stares at him in open-mouthed dismay—every patrol before has gone wrong, so it stands to reason this one's going to do the same, and he just wants to stop it from going as wrong as it did last time.

But it's all for nothing in the end because Merlin shows up anyway—a part of Arthur knew he would, but the sight of the skinny figure atop the loping, docile nag he favors still sends a jolt of fear and fury tearing through him like a lance.

"I told you to stay behind," he says, once Merlin has caught up with them.

"Good thing I never listen to you," Merlin says back, and won't turn around for anything. "Got to have someone here to save your royal backside when you land yourself in trouble, you know."

"I'm not a damsel, Merlin," Arthur tries to protest, but he doesn't think Merlin's really listening. "I don't need saving. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't need saving from  _you_."

"Mary Collins," Merlin says, like that settles everything, and shifts a little on his horse—and there's a moment there where the stupid, smug smile slips off his face like water, and he winces—draws a sudden, sharp breath—and then it's gone, and his smile is back, and it's like it never happened at all. "Poisoned goblet," he adds, when he sees Arthur looking at him. "Perilous Lands."

"Hang on, then!" Arthur interrupts indignantly. "The Perilous Lands? I did _not_  need saving in the Perilous Lands—!"

"Oh, sorry, my mistake," Merlin says, and doesn't sound sorry at all. "I just assumed, you know, considering how Gwaine and I found you fainted and flat on your back and surrounded by wyvern."

From somewhere behind them, the knights start to laugh and Arthur isn't sure whether he ought to glare at them first or threaten Merlin with the stocks and  _then_  glare at the knights, so they know _they're_  included in that threat too—and everything is okay.

And then the first arrow goes screaming past them, gleaming metal head sinking deep into the trunk of a nearby tree and the horses start rearing and the men rush to escape their mounts as enemies pour from the trees and Arthur leaps from his saddle and draws his sword with one hand and pushes Merlin back behind him with the other because there is a cold and hollow space inside of Arthur that still remembers what it was like to lose him.

The fight is over barely an instant after it's begun—luck is with them, it seems, and a few well-aimed blows put a firm and decisive end to the battle—at the close, only one opponent survives, a man with tangled dark hair falling in thick, dirtied clumps all the way down to his shoulders—in the struggle, Arthur had not gotten a proper look at his face, but he gets it now, as the man slowly lifts his head and shakes out his hair—he looks at—at  _Merlin_ , of all people, only Merlin—and Arthur doesn't even have the time to wonder before Merlin—

—Merlin freezes, absolutely still, blue eyes blown wide, a deer standing helpless before the hunter's bolt—

The man smiles at Merlin, then, a strange and unsightly twist of his mouth, a subtle baring of the teeth. "Did you miss me?"

Wait. What?

Arthur falters, hand halfway to the hilt of his sword.  _Did you miss me?_  What—what does _that_ —and what does Merlin have to do with—but he's got the wrong person, surely—?

"Don't touch me!" Merlin scrambles back at once, stumbling in his haste, and raises a trembling hand, palm out and fingers spread—not even the presence of mind to make a fist—no threat to anyone at all.

And the man knows it, too—he laughs, and there is something awful about the sound, like metal grating against metal. "Don't be like that. I know you missed me as much as I missed you."

_He does_ —this man—he  _does_  know Merlin—but—but  _how?_  Arthur certainly doesn't remember him, and as Merlin goes wherever he goes, it only stands to reason that anyone who sets off such a strong reaction in Merlin is someone he himself would know about— _should_  know about—unless they go all the way back to Merlin's childhood in Ealdor—?

Arthur sets his jaw. He'll get to the bottom of things. "You know him?"

He looks to Merlin, but it's the man who answers, with another of his grating laughs.

" _Know_  him? Oh,  _yes_ , I'd say I know him  _well_." He spares Arthur a quick, cursory glance before he returns his gaze to Merlin. "But what's this? You have not told your master what you've done?"

"What—what is he talking about?" Gwaine says it before Arthur can. "Merlin?"

"Nothing," Merlin says at once, and drops his hand back to his side. He won't look at anyone anymore, not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur, it seems. "Nothing. He must be mad. I don't know what he's talking of."

Unease pricks at Arthur then—the way Merlin avoids their eyes and fidgets with his sleeve and can't seem to stay still—

"No?" The man breaks in, mouth quirking up in another smile—this one with a sharp, sly edge to it. "Are you certain of that? Do you need another reminder? You know how you  _loved_  your reminders, Merlin."

And Merlin—Merlin flinches at the use of his name, actually _flinches_ —it's like he can't stop himself—and Arthur doesn't care, suddenly, what the man's trying to tell them—whatever it is, whatever Merlin's done, whatever's made it so he can't look anyone in the eye anymore, Arthur doesn't know, and he doesn't care to know—it won't change a thing. Merlin is still Merlin—the scrawny peasant boy from the poor farming village who swaggered into Camelot and called the crown prince a prat, the cheerful, cheeky servant who never shuts up and never loses an opportunity to tease Arthur, the unswervingly loyal and unflinchingly brave and unexpectedly wise Merlin.

And absolutely nothing else matters.

" _Enough."_  Arthur finds his voice then—his hand returns, reflexively, to the hilt of his sword. He knows he can get the story out of Merlin later, if he still cared to. He doesn't. And he knows he never will again.

"You will be silent, man," he adds, in the most commanding voice he can muster, "and when we return to Camelot, you are to be hanged for your crimes against the crown."

This doesn't make as much an impression as Arthur hoped—the man merely flicks his head briefly at Arthur, as if batting away an irksome gnat. "Caradoc, Pendragon. It may surprise you, but those of us beneath you do have names." The words have scarcely left his mouth before he's looking again to Merlin—like he can't keep his eyes off him. "Now, come on, then. Won't you at least greet me in the way I taught you?" His lips stretch wide in another of his strange smiles.

"No," Merlin backs away even further, and trips several times, clumsier than ever in his terror. "No, no, I don't know what you're talking about, no…" His shoulders come up in a kind of hunch.

"You stand upon King Arthur's land," Percival steps forward before Caradoc can utter another word, setting himself resolutely between Merlin and the man. "You will speak to  _him_. Merlin has made it clear enough that he wants nothing to do with you."

Arthur sends him a swift, grateful look—he isn't the only one, then, repulsed by Caradoc's conduct, in spite of his own confusion.

"I find that hard to believe," Caradoc shifts his gaze to Percival. "If I recall, he wanted much to do with me not a fortnight ago."

_Fortnight._  Something in the word arrests Arthur, as much as he tries not to let it—he doesn't want to listen to anything this man says, but he can't help it—something seems to roll or pitch in the pit of his stomach.  _Fortnight._  Merlin disappeared for a fortnight.

But—but he  _said_ —

"Why don't you tell them, Merlin?"

Arthur looks at Merlin. He doesn't—he doesn't  _mean_  to—it just happens—and it doesn't matter and he doesn't care because Merlin is still Merlin, but he's not looking at them, he's not looking at anybody, shaking his head and swallowing hard, and staring at the ground—

" _Tell them_ ," Caradoc persists, merciless, "how _good_  you were for me. How beautiful you looked beneath me."

Everything in the entire world stops.

"—your sweet little sounds—especially when you were trying to keep quiet—"

Everything in the entire world stops and—Arthur's going to be sick any second but—but everything in the entire world  _makes sense_.

"St-stop!" Merlin doesn't even sound like Merlin anymore. "Stop it—that's—that's not true, no, stop lying—!"

Merlin didn't get lost.

And Merlin didn't get away from the bandits.

"—and, oh, how hard you fought me—before I got that collar on you—docile as a lamb after that, weren't you—?"

"—stop it, no, I don't know what you're talking about, that never happened—"

Merlin's strange, stiff way of walking and how he winced when he thought no one was looking and oh, gods,  _everything in the entire world makes sense_  and Arthur would give  _anything_  if it _didn't_.

"—you  _did_  put up _such_  a fight at first—"

And everything in the entire world makes sense—a horrible, sick sort of sense, but sense nonetheless—and Caradoc's words paint the worst of pictures in Arthur's mind—if he closes his eyes, he can see it—Merlin, collared and shackled and furious and spitting acid and unable to get away—his face screwing up in pain as Caradoc forces himself inside— _no_ —

"—but I had you crying for your precious king by the end—"

—everyone's shouting all of a sudden and Arthur's hand throbs and he looks down and there's blood on his knuckles, his fingers curled fast into a tight fist—he looks up—thick crimson streams gush from Caradoc's broad nose, all down his mouth and chin—savage satisfaction burns strong in Arthur's chest at the sight—his hand smarts with the promise of further pain, once the rage and adrenaline wear off, but he will bear it gladly—Caradoc swipes away the blood and—

" _ARTHUR!"_

—and then he's down, on the ground, fifteen feet away with all the wind knocked out of him as the gold fades slowly from Caradoc's irises—and he sees the other knights have met the same fate, a tangle of shining silver mail and bright red cloaks on the forest floor—and then Caradoc's looking at Merlin—only Merlin—Merlin, on the ground, scrambling back on his behind—he puts his hand up again—palm out and fingers splayed, just like last time—as if the gesture alone will keep Caradoc at bay—"Stay back!" he cries in a choked, strangled voice, barely more than a breathy gasp—his chest heaves beneath his shirt, up and down, far too fast—his hand is shaking, so badly he can scarcely keep it aloft—and Arthur—

He's up on his feet and then he's running and then he's on top of Caradoc and he doesn't know what he's doing and he's only got room for one whole and coherent thought in his scrambled mind— _he hurt Merlin_ —and then his sword is in his hand and then he's driving it through Caradoc's back—cloth and skin alike split beneath the blade's keen edge—Caradoc throws back his head—a shout of agony leaves his lips as the blood spills from the wound in his back—and then he slumps over, onto the ground, and  _he hurt Merlin, he hurt Merlin, he hurt Merlin_ , and death is too kind for a man like him—Arthur will see him flogged—Arthur will see him locked in the castle's darkest, dirtiest dungeon—Arthur will see him denied food and water—Arthur will see him thrashed within an inch of his worthless life—

And then, suddenly, Merlin is there, shaking him, shouting for him— _Arthur! Arthur, stop!—_ calling him back to himself.

Arthur has been beating a dead man.

He stumbles back a pace, and turns away from the body—the drying blood and staring, sightless eyes—he feels no pity. He feels no regret.

— _how good you were for me—how beautiful you looked beneath me—how hard you fought me—before I got that collar on you—_

The awful words echo through Arthur's head again and he wants—he doesn't know  _what_ he wants, except that he desperately wishes somebody would speak because the knights have gotten to their feet by now but no one's said a single word and in the silence, he can still hear Caradoc's voice, and everyone's stealing glances at Merlin like they can still hear it, too, and—

"Merlin?" Gwaine breaks the silence. No surprise there. He never can stay quiet for long. He clears his throat, and steps forward. "Merlin, mate, that—that man—"

"Didn't know what he was talking about," Merlin says at once. "Think he'd gone a bit round the bend, actually, did you catch that?"

No. No, that's a lie. That's a  _lie_ , and Arthur  _knows_  it's a lie, and why the  _hell_  is the idiot even  _bothering_  to try and pretend when everyone saw and everyone heard and—?

"Merlin…" Leon tries to protest.

"We should head back to Camelot," Merlin continues briskly. "Come on, knowing our luck, someone else will pop out soon, looking to off us."

_No._  Arthur presses his lips together.  _Not this time._  He storms forward—every footfall is a crack of thunder and  _no_  and his blood pounds in his ears and  _not this time_ and when he's near enough, he seizes Merlin's stupid red scarf in one fist and tears it clean off.

Almost before the cloth has left his neck, Merlin's moving, clapping a hand over his throat, but it's too late, and he's not quick enough, and in the spaces between his spread fingers, Arthur sees the raw chafed skin and yellow-green bruises edged with brown and—and  _bite marks_.

_Actual goddamn fucking bite marks._

"Well?!" Arthur shouts, heart still pounding fit to burst in his chest, and a strange sort of roaring in his ears. "What now, Merlin?! I suppose you're going to tell me now that you got all that by—what, tripping on a tree root? Polishing my armor?  _Getting out of bed_?!"

"Arthur—"

"You  _never_ got lost!" He already knows the answer, but he throws Merlin an expectant glance anyway, half-waiting for confirmation. "Why did you lie?!"

"Arthur," Merlin says again, and he still won't take his stupid hand off his stupid neck and his eyes are wide and his voice is choked and he has no right to go looking so stupid and scared and uncertain and making it really, really hard for Arthur to stay mad at him. "Arthur, listen—"

" _Why_  didn't you _tell_  me?" Arthur demands, but even he can hear that the majority of the heat has left his voice—then he thinks of Caradoc atop Merlin—helpless, trembling, terrified Merlin, who kept it quiet in spite of everything, who never told a soul—and his blood comes to a boil in his veins. "Why didn't you  _just tell me_?  _How could you keep something like this a secret?!"_

" _You're the king!"_  Oh, now Merlin goes and gets angry—now he goes and stops looking so innocent and vulnerable and not-Merlin—he rips his hands from his throat, his fingers clenching up in fists so tight his knuckles turn white. "You have  _all of Camelot_  to worry about! The people look to you! The people depend on you! The people  _need_  you! You have so many people looking to you and depending on you and  _needing_  you and you need someone, too, and you forget that sometimes, but _I_  don't, and I  _need_  to be _there_  when you need someone, and I can't need _you_  because you need  _me_ —!"

_Oh._

"M-Merlin," Arthur starts, and he can't quite keep the stammer out of his voice—and he doesn't know anything anymore—what to say or what to think or where to look—all he knows is how devastatingly  _wrong_  everything in that statement is. "Merlin, you  _shouldn't_  have…" But he can't go any farther. He's just said all there is to say. Because Merlin shouldn't have. He really shouldn't have. He shouldn't have had to. He shouldn't have  _felt like_  he had to.

"Oh," and the anger is gone and horror replaces it—scowl dissolving and dark brows lifting and eyes widening. "No.  _No,_  Arthur, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—I'm sorry—I didn't—" Merlin takes a stumbling, awkward step back. His fists unclench. "I'm sorry," he says softly, miserably.

_I'm sorry._ The words don't make sense for what feels like an eternity, no matter how Arthur looks at them, turning them over and over in his mind, tasting them on his own tongue— _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ —a mystery from every angle—and then, suddenly, they do make sense, they _do_ , and his stomach gives a great wrench, and he's going to—well, he doesn't know what he's going to do, actually, all he knows is that Merlin's apologizing— _Merlin's actually fucking apologizing,_ and he's an idiot, he really is—the biggest idiot in all of Albion, and Arthur wants to grab him, take him by the shoulders and just shake him until he understands—gods, a full  _fortnight_  of the worst form of torture imaginable, and he couldn't bring himself to breathe a word until he  _didn't have any other choice_ , because—

—because of  _Arthur._

And Arthur—Arthur's believed him. Up until now, Arthur has believed him—every word he's said, every lie he's told, every smile he's flashed and laugh he's forced and every little ounce of pain he's hidden, Arthur has believed him, has refused to see what's been right in front of him the entire time, because he  _needed_  Merlin to be okay. And Merlin—Merlin  _knew that_.

"The hell?!" And then, suddenly, Gwaine's there, face screwed up in his fury, spitting every word out like poison. "The  _hell_  are you apologizing for?!"

"—I—" And the idiot—the great, goddamned _fool_ , doesn't even seem to have an answer. "—I didn't—" He stops again. Blinks at Gwaine. Bites his lip. "—I didn't  _mean_  to—"

"The _only_  thing," Gwaine cuts in, eyes blazing, "the only thing you have to be sorry about, is that you didn't  _tell us_ , so we could have given the  _bastard_ what he deserved a  _hell_ of a lot sooner."

And Merlin—Merlin doesn't understand—Arthur can tell he doesn't understand, can see it in his face, in his eyes—hear it, even, in his slow and unsteady breathing—he  _doesn't understand_ —because he's an idiot—a stupid idiot, a great, big, ridiculous, imbecilic, foolish,  _stupid_ —

_No._

Arthur tightens his lips.

No, Merlin's not the idiot, not this time.

_Arthur_  is. He _is_  an idiot, isn't he, of the absolute highest sort—an oblivious fool—a pathetic half-wit—he's a—a  _prat_ , that's what—a stupid,  _stupid_  prat—a self-absorbed _ass_ —an utter dollophead—a great, gullible  _clotpole—_ andevery other awful thing Merlin has ever called him, ever, because if he wasn't every last one of those things, then Merlin would have told him—would have told him everything—would never, ever have felt like he couldn't—and Arthur—

—Arthur needs to  _fix this._

He pushes past Gwaine to put himself in front of Merlin, and he doesn't know what he's going to say until the words are pouring from him, spilling from his lips like water. "You shouldn't have kept this from me, Merlin. I don't care," he adds, fiercely, when Merlin opens his mouth to protest, "I don't  _care_  if you thought you were doing me some sort of favor. You  _weren't_."

"Arthur—"

" _No,"_  because Merlin's got that face that means he's about to argue, and Arthur just  _won't let him_. "I don't  _care_. I don't care that you thought you were doing me some sort of favor. You are  _never_  going to do that again, do you hear me?"

And Merlin  _doesn't understand._  "—Arthur, I—"

"You are  _never_  going to think of me," Arthur says, "when you should be thinking of yourself."

"No!" Merlin shakes his head, and stands up a little straighter, a new sense of urgency in his tone. "No, Arthur, you can't—you  _can't_ blame yourself, I—"

" _This isn't about me!"_

And finally— _finally_ —Merlin _shuts up._

"You're  _important_ , Merlin!" Arthur says—he doesn't really think about the words as they leave his mouth—he doesn't _need_  to—they're the _truth_ , and for a minute, that's all that matters. "You're important, you're so  _damn important_ , and I would  _never_  expect you—I would never _want_  you to put yourself second when you  _need_  to come first!"

Merlin just looks at him. Merlin just—just  _looks_ at him—and—and all the knights—all the knights just look at him—everyone's looking at him, and he doesn't know why, and he's getting ready to start shouting again and—and—

— _oh._

The forest is suddenly very,  _very_  warm, and Arthur can't bring himself to meet anyone's eye.

"And you're an  _idiot_!" He adds, sharply, and cuffs Merlin roughly on the back of the head, and hopes to the gods no one catches the slight stammer in the words, and then he steps back and he can swear there is the barest shadow of a grin on Merlin's face.

And— _later_ —they will return to Camelot. Slow, and quiet, and inexpressibly weary, but they will return, and Arthur will feel as though he has aged several thousand years since he last rode through the gates.

Guinevere will be waiting for him. There, on the palace steps, she will stand, her silken blue dress swirling round her like a great ocean, and a smile warm as the sun spread wide across her face. And, in spite of everything, Arthur will find himself smiling back.

And then Merlin will climb gingerly from his horse, mouth scrunching up in a grimace, knuckles white against the dark neat coat of his mount. Gwaine will go rushing from his own steed to help, and Arthur will remember the blood on his sword and the dead man in the forest, and his smile will fade.

Later, Merlin will tell Gaius. Arthur will not be there. Merlin will not  _want_ him to be there, and Arthur will know that, but he'll know Merlin has told the truth, because there will be a grim and unfamiliar set to Gaius' mouth Arthur has never seen before, and he will look at Merlin with tired and unspoken sorrow in his eyes, and he will rest a firm and wizened hand on Arthur's shoulder, and he will say  _thank you._

_For what?_ Arthur will ask, because he knows he has done nothing, and he will not pretend he has.

_For bringing my boy back home,_  Gaius will say, and Arthur will suddenly find it impossible to swallow, and the words will fall from his tongue without his own consent.

_I'll always bring him home,_  he will say, and he will mean it more than he has ever meant anything in his life.

Gaius will smile.  _I know._

Things will not go back to the way they were before. Arthur won't have a way to explain it. Arthur won't ever have a way to explain it. It will be abstract and intangible, too much so to be put into words. But it will be different. Merlin will be different. Gaius will be different. The knights will be different. Guinevere, when Merlin finally does tell her, will be different.

_Arthur_ will be different.

And Arthur won't know—he will not ever, ever know—if it is a bad different or a good different or a somewhere-in-between different or just different—but it _will_  be different.

But now—

—now—

—well—for now, they are going  _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> BLEARGH i dont like the way I characterized Merlin in this. at all. but I have recently realized I have never written the obligatory 'Merlin-goes-through-literal-hell-and-suffers-in-silence-because-Arthur-needs-him' fic and I had no choice but to rectify that. This is the result. It's kind of terrible. in case you can't tell, my writing for this fandom needs a lot of work.


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